My mother’s hands
Seem like birds in the air
kitchen stories
between her wings wounded
of hunger.

My mother’s hands
know what happens
in the mornings
when she kneads the life
clay ovens
bread of hope.

My mother’s hands
arrive early to the courtyard
everything becomes a party
when they fly
next to other birds
next to the birds
that love life
and build it with hard work
the firewood burns, flour and clay
the everyday life
becomes magical
becomes magical.

My mother’s hands
mean to me an open sky
and a yearned memory
warm rags during the winters

They give themselves warmly
noble, sincere, clean of all
how would the hands of he who is moved by hatred be like?

My mother’s hands
arrive early to the courtyard
everything becomes a party
when they fly
next to other birds
next to the birds
that love life
and build it with works
the firewood burns, flour and clay
the everyday life
becomes magical
becomes magical.